


Timeless waltz of recollection

by anamia



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, Romantic weeping, jehanon saga
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-05 05:17:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1806658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anamia/pseuds/anamia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jehan laid his head against Joly’s shoulder, the tears falling sideways down his face to land on Joly’s sleeve. After a long moment he said quietly, “We are remembered, Joly. Our words will not dissipate forever like the shapes in a cloud, not entirely. Our destiny is to be heard, I’m certain of it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Timeless waltz of recollection

**Author's Note:**

> So this one requires some context. A little less than a week ago, a truly magical anon began appearing in the inboxes of the tumblr Les Mis fandom and leaving heartbreakingly beautiful messages all signed J. Prouvaire. We all kind of thought it would be a one night thing, but Jehanon, as they have been dubbed, has stayed around and continued to lift our spirits and remind us that humanity can be incredible. Most of the correspondence between Jehanon and various tumblr users can be found in the 'Jehanon' or 'the jehanon saga' tumblr tags, and I know that tumblr user pilferingapples is doing her best to collect them all onto her blog, tagged as 'the jehanon saga.' If you are at all interested in beautiful words and amazing people I encourage you to go check it out.

Jehan was weeping. His shoulders trembled under his gold-colored waistcoat and his hair had long since slipped from its restraints to tumble around his face, hiding his features from view. His hands hovered near his face, not covering his tears but rather catching them, palms cupped as though to receive an offering. He sat quietly in one corner of the room, having disdained his chair to push himself into the wall, his legs contorted beneath him in a way that could not be comfortable. Of course, when it came to Jean Prouvaire, comfort was rarely the desired outcome, and he seemed nearly radiant now even through his tears and his awkwardness.

"My friend?" The quiet voice was Joly’s, who had slipped away from the others to stand before Jehan. When Jehan did not respond Joly set his cane aside and lowered himself carefully to a seat a little ways away, his legs crossed and his back to the wall, near enough to brush against Jehan’s shoulder but not quite touching, leaving that fraction of space for Jehan to cross if he wished to. "Will you tell me what has moved you so?"

For a time Jehan was silent, tears still cascading down his face to pool in his hands and seep from between his fingers. Joly too stayed quiet, fishing in his pocket for a match and lighting his pipe. Together they say, Jehan weeping and Joly contemplating, until at last Jehan said, “Last night I dreamed I had died.”

Joly’s only response was a noise of curiosity, urging Jehan to continue without attempting to direct the flow of his burgeoning narrative.

"I dreamed that I was a spirit," Jehan continued after a moment, "Adrift in a strange world that I knew and did not know. It was filled with unfamiliar objects, terrifying noises and visions that left me trembling, and yet it felt as though I has come home. I saw a light, and I went towards it, and when I reached it I found a friend, an artist whose work conjured in me such feelings that I had to speak. And as I spoke I confessed my affection, my love, entreated upon her to accept my humble offerings, though I was but a ghost and she much greater. I made her weep, and as she wept I saw more lights around me, each signs of friends whom I knew by instinct. I reached towards them too, filled them with the love that overflowed in me, gave them the only gift I could offer in my state — my words, and in return I felt my love returned a hundredfold."

He paused, his eyes open and unseeing. Joly, his pipe half forgotten, sat motionless, as caught up in Jehan’s tale as Jehan was himself.

"From them all I heard one refrain above all the others," Jehan said after a time. " _You are remembered_ , they told me, and through their memories I felt myself growing stronger, more tangible, more tied to this place and these friends who were no longer new but had always been in my heart. They cared for me, wept with me, loved with me, and I felt as though I were once again home.” He blinked, and his gaze lost their glazed expression as he focused on Joly. “I felt there the way that I feel when I am here with you.”

Joly could not contain himself. He closed the remaining distance between them and wrapped one arm around Jehan’s shoulders. “I am glad that you were able to see such things,” he said quietly. “And I am gladder still that you returned to us.”

Jehan laid his head against Joly’s shoulder, the tears falling sideways down his face to land on Joly’s sleeve. After a long moment he said quietly, “We are remembered, Joly. Our words will not dissipate forever like the shapes in a cloud, not entirely. Our destiny is to be heard, I’m certain of it.”

"If our words are destined to be remembered, then I shall have to hire you to compose me some good ones," Joly said through a smile. "Or else I shall be remembered for entirely frivolous things that only seem profound to the inebriated."

"I shall write you a discourse about mice," Jehan promised, his eyes fluttering closed as the energy he had expended in his weeping caught up with him. "And you shall declaim it before all of Paris."

Joly laughed a little at this and reached over with his free hand to brush a strand of sodden hair from Jehan’s face. “I’d like that,” he said. “Make sure you write in an aside about cats too, just to keep the balance.”

Jehan, already sleeping, made no reply, but Joly fancied he could see the slightest hint of a smile on his tear-streaked face.

 


End file.
